The dearest smile played about his lips as he answered: “Oh, no. It has been raining hard.” Another pause ensued, this time a long one; until the baron brought it to a close by saying: “You are aware that I am very glad to be going to Bosnia?” I replied: “Yes, I know; and I know the reason. You have a great work before you there.” “For the small scope of my office,” he hastened to make reply. “It is just the inferiority of the office I hold which gives a certain importance to the work in hand. At any rate, it must take a long time to settle; and I shall not think of coming home until it is completed.” “But you will have leave from time to time?” “Yes, certainly.” “And you will come and see us?” “Oh, of course.” “That will give pleasure to many--to me especially.” These very natural words of mine seemed to produce a remarkable impression upon him. With warmth and agitation, he repeated: “You, especially? you, especially?” He seemed about to add something, took a step toward me, then recalling himself, preserved silence, merely throwing his gloves impetuously into his hat, which he had placed upon the window-sill. Then I, regaining courage, said: “Do take a seat, Baron Schwarzburg.” He accepted my invitation, and we sat down on the two easychairs by the flower table, facing each other, near the French window leading on to the balcony. “How heavy and oppressive the air is in town, now!” he exclaimed. And I agreed that it would be ever so much pleasanter in the country, and in Bosnia, too. “Oh, infinitely. And will you be as glad to go into the country as I to go to Bosnia?” I said yes. And then he wanted a description of my life at Trostburg, and I gave him a detailed account of the way I spent each day. He thanked me warmly. It would be so delightful to know where his thoughts could seek me at every hour of the day; in the woods, in the garden, in my own room, or in the library absorbed in some interesting book. “And be sure that my thoughts will often follow you,” he added. “I shall count upon that,” was my reply. “And will you be thinking of me?” He looked into my eyes as he asked it. With as firm a look, I answered: “Always.” Then he seized my hand, and held it nervously, almost as though I were some priceless treasure. “No, that you must not do! Even to one’s best friend--and that I am to you--one does not give up all one’s thoughts. He will consider himself happy indeed if you occasionally grant him a kindly remembrance.”